


The Sun Hasn't Died

by morganofthefairies



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x03, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, Light Angst, Post-Battle of Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 22:31:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganofthefairies/pseuds/morganofthefairies
Summary: When the horn had sounded, as he and Arya lay next to each other on the sacking, he had been ready to die.  He had been so incredibly furious, but he had been ready.  He had wanted more time – more time for Arya, for himself, for them, for the whole world.-----Immediately after the dead fall, as everyone struggles to comprehend the fact that the world hasn't ended, Gendry searches through the wreckage for the only family he's ever really known.





	The Sun Hasn't Died

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I'm posting anything, because I've never actually finished a story before and I needed to add my take to the aftermath of the battle before tonight's episode airs.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Title from Radioactive - Imagine Dragons

Silence fell over the castle as the dead began to crumble around them. No one, it seemed, was able to trust that they had survived.

Gendry locked eyes with Tormund and saw his own disbelief reflected in the wildling’s expression. The adrenaline from the battle still thrummed in his veins, dulling the pain that he was sure would come. His leg was bleeding – had been for a while – and he was pretty sure he had taken a few too many blows to the ribs, but right now, all he could feel was shock.

“Did we just win,” he asked, eyes locked with Tormund’s own. Slowly, the shock melted from the red-haired man’s face, sliding instead into a maniacal grin. Tormund let out a cheer, lifting his sword high in the air as he stood on his mountain of rotting corpses.

Tormund pitched forward and enveloped Gendry in an elated hug, laughter spilling from his lips, and Gendry felt the euphoria begin to bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest.

They had won.

The had _lived_.

The dead had, well, _died_ , and they were still standing.

The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon.

“The Crow fuckin’ did it,” Tormund cheered. Around them, cheers were beginning to sound as those who had survived embraced and laughed and struggled to process the fact that, against all odds, the world had not ended.

“You survived.” Gendry turned from Tormund to see Davos approaching them, looking a little worse for wear, but still very much alive.

“I’m hard to kill,” he responded, grinning. His ribs were beginning to throb, pain lanced through his leg, but he was _alive_.

“Aye, I’m getting that,” Davos agreed. “I guess we won.”

“I’m going to find the big woman,” Tormund announced before Gendry could respond, leaping down from the pile of corpses.

Just like that, the elation was gone and reality set in. Yes, he had survived, but where in seven hells was Arya? He hadn’t seen her since before all hell had broken loose, standing on the battlements with her sister.

“I have to-,” he choked out, gesturing vaguely, his throat too tight to get the words out. Davos must have seen something in his expression, because the older man didn’t press for him to finish his sentence, only nodded.

“After you, then.”

Gendry headed for the last place he’d seen her, unsure of what else to do, fear clawing at his throat and turning his blood to ice in his veins. His eyes scanned the faces of the dead at his feet, dread pooling deep in his gut.

“Not to interrupt,” Davos spoke for the first time after what might have been hours of searching. Perhaps it was only a few minutes. Time had been coming in spurts and pauses since the horns had sounded; maybe even before that, since Arya had claimed his lips and clawed at his clothing and taken him with the brutal confidence that had become her since they parted. “Who are we looking for, exactly?”

“Arya.” Gendry didn’t look up, didn’t consider that he had no reason to be so terrified at the thought that he might be living in a world that Arya Stark was no longer a part of. His leg was throbbing, blood soaking through his pants.

“Lady Stark?” The surprise was clear in the Onion Knight’s voice, but Gendry didn’t slow his search.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” Gendry snorted, although his attempt at a joke came out forced and stilted. His panic rose with each passing moment. Where was she?

_Don’t be dead_ , he thought. _Please, don’t be dead_.

Davos put a gentle hand on Gendry’s shoulder, perhaps meaning to steady him, but Gendry only ignored him. Whatever comfort the man was offering, whatever questions he wanted answers to, could all wait until he found Arya. Nothing had ever been so important.

“I saw her in the courtyard, after everything went to shit,” Davos finally said. “She was fury personified, taking out the dead with some sort of staff.” Then, considering, “Where does a rich girl get a weapon like that?”

Gendry felt a rush of pride at the thought, and couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Davos didn’t say anything, but Gendry saw the concern flash across his features.

She had to be alive. She _had_ to be.

The men continued their search, moving through the endless heaps of fallen corpses at various stages of rot without a word. Every so often, Gendry would glimpse a fresh corpse with a slight frame, or a shock of dark hair, and his heart would stop and bile would rise in his throat until he got a better look.

So far, none of them had been his lady.

Gendry was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly tripped over something on the ground. He went to kick the object aside in frustration, but he went cold when he saw what it was.

Sitting at his feet, broken in two, was the staff he had carefully crafted for Arya.

With trembling fingers, he picked the broken staff off the ground. His knees trembled beneath him, and he found himself utterly frozen, gaze fixed on the weapon. He found himself too terrified to look away, afraid he would see her among the scattered bodies.

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Davos’ voice broke through the white noise in his mind. “Coulda dropped it and run.”

“And then survived without a weapon,” Gendry asked, voice soft, afraid that if he spoke any louder, the roiling emotions stuck in his chest would burst forth.

Arya Stark was dead.

He needed to find her body. Her siblings deserved to bury her. She deserved to be laid to rest in her family’s crypt.

He needed to see her, one last time.

Gendry dropped the staff and lurched forward toward the mass of the dead, digging through, determined to find her. Davos said nothing, only stood behind him, a calming presence.

If there was such a thing anymore.

Gendry’s hands trembled, and he felt tears pricking behind his eyes as the grief and the rage threatened to explode out from where they fought for dominance in his ribcage. His ribs ached, blood pooled in his boot, squelching with every step. He could feel the throb of his pulse in the wound on his leg.

He had thought he’d lost Arya once before, after news of the Red Wedding had spread, and the knowledge had nearly broken him. Now, he’d gotten her back only to lose her again.

It wasn’t _fair_.

He wanted more time.

When the horn had sounded, as he and Arya lay next to each other on the sacking, he had been ready to die. He had been so incredibly _furious_ , but he had been ready. He had wanted more time – more time for Arya, for himself, for _them_ , for the whole world.

But he had flown from their repose with her and dressed quickly and quietly, ready to face the end of the world. She had finished dressing seconds before him, grabbed her weapon from where she had put it down earlier, and headed for the door, but he had stopped her.

He couldn’t say she kissed him – really, he had kissed her, once, sweet and lingering, and she had stood there and let it happen. If he hadn’t known her so well, hadn’t been so attuned to her every movement, he wouldn’t have noticed the tremble go through her.

“Don’t die, you stupid bull,” she had said, her mask firmly in place, her voice detached. She hadn’t looked at him, had flown from the room immediately after, and he had been so _angry_ at the world for giving her back to him just in time for them to die.

Except, he hadn’t died. He had lived, and the dead had crumbled around them.

And she was _gone._

Gendry leaned back against the wall, shaking too badly to continue searching. Davos stood in front of him, looking like he wanted to help, but seemingly at a loss of how to do so.

Davos didn’t understand – couldn’t understand. He didn’t know what they were to each other. The only person who really knew was dead now.

_I could be your family._

The words echoed in his head, the heartbreak in her voice tearing through him, as it always did when he let himself remember.

He had loved her so fiercely then – hadn’t been in love with her, that hadn’t come until later – until finding her again, both so familiar and so different all at once.

Still, he hadn’t known how to tell her – either then or now – that she was his family, the only family he had ever had, really. He hadn’t known how to tell her, back then, that he couldn’t come with her to Winterfell because he was terrified that she would forget him, that he would have to lose her slowly, even when she was right in front of him.

And now he had lost her for good, had lost the chance to tell her that she was his family – would always be his family, that he was so unbelievably sorry for leaving her.

“Come on,” Davos finally said. “We have to go find Jon.”

Gendry didn’t want to face Jon, didn’t want to admit to his new friend that he had failed at the only job that had ever really meant anything – protecting Arya.

He knew he would have to eventually, though. There was still work to be done. Gendry nodded once at Davos and stood on shaking legs, Arya’s staff caught in one hand, and followed the older man back to where they had started.

He found The Hound, Brienne of Tarth, Tormund, and Podrick Payne standing near the gate, all of them clearly drained after the battle.

“Jaime has gone to find his brother and the others in the crypt,” Brienne greeted them. Davos nodded. Gendry hardly heard her.

“The Red Cunt is dead,” Clegane said. “So is Dondarrion.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that about the Red Woman,” Davos replied.

“I’m a little sorry about Beric,” Gendry added, fingers curled tight around Arya’s staff. The Red Woman could fuck off, he thought, but he and Beric had gone north of the wall together. All was not forgiven, of course, but he hadn’t wished the man dead by any means. That sort of thing tended to bond two people.

“I saw Lady Arya with that before the battle,” Brienne said, her tone almost accusing. “What are you doing with it?”

“I made it.” It was a lame response – he’d had a hand in making most of the weapons used in this battle. Still, he wouldn’t have been clutching Clegane’s axe, had he stumbled across it in his search.

He didn’t know _how_ to explain why he held it, only that he’d made it for her, and now it was all he had left.

The Hound looked at him with something like understanding on his face. After all, he was the only person alive who had any clue about Gendry’s history with the youngest Stark girl.

Well, him and Hot Pie. Maybe he would seek him out, once this was all over. He would want to know what happened to their friend.

“Next time someone suggests the crypts as a way to hide from an enemy who can raise the dead,” came Lord Tyrion’s voice, “kill that person.” Gendry turned to greet the newcomers, led by Jaime Lannister.

What was the world coming to, that Gendry was actually _pleased_ to see not one, but two bloody Lannisters alive and well?

Tyrion’s voice was light, but his expression was strained, and he was clutching Lady Sansa’s hand rather desperately. The Lady of Winterfell seemed equally distressed, and she was gripping a dragonglass dagger in her other hand.

“Where are the others,” Sansa addressed them, sounding every inch the leader of her house.

Not that Gendry would ever dream of repeating that to Jon.

“We don’t know yet, milady,” Brienne replied. “We were all scattered when the dead fell, but I imagine Jon killed the Night King. I have not seen Lord Brandon or your sister in several hours.”

“And Theon?”

“He was in the godswood with your brother, milady.”

At that moment, something behind Gendry caught Sansa’s eye and she let out a cry before taking off running, dropping both her dagger and Tyrion’s hand.

Gendry turned, and nearly fell to his knees in relief. There, standing beside her brothers, was Arya Stark.

There was a nasty cut on Arya’s forehead, and she was coated in dirt and grime and blood, but she was _alive_ and Gendry found himself thanking every god he’d ever heard of.

As Sansa embraced her siblings, Gendry could only stare, afraid that if he moved, he would run to her, sweep her up in his arms, and never let her go again.

Tormund was the first to interrupt the Stark’s reunion, barreling into Jon with all of his usual grace.

“You did it, Crow!”

Something in Gendry doubted it. His eyes fell to the dagger at Arya’s side – Valyrian steel – and he wondered…

_I always knew you were just another rich girl._

And then he stopped caring, because Arya’s eyes found his, and her calm mask dropped, her expression morphing to match the feeling coursing through Gendry’s veins, and she was running.

He moved then, meeting her in the middle, sod anyone who had anything to say.

They had survived the end of the world.

Arya Stark was _alive._

He caught her around the waist, lifting her easily, despite the fatigue in – well – all of him, and crushed her against him, needing to eliminate all of the space between them.

“ _You’re alive_ ,” he breathed into her neck, pressing his face into her.

“Of course I am, you stupid bull.” Soon, his body began to protest, his leg threatening to buckle and his ribs crying out, and he lowered her slowly to the ground, not releasing his hold on her. “You’re alive, too.”

“As milady commands.” Arya didn’t protest – only grinned at him, big and elated and bright. She was covered in grime, her hair was matted with sweat and blood and dirt, she smelled of death, and Gendry had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He wanted to drink her in, keep this imagine burned into his brain forever.

He didn’t have time, though, because Arya pressed up and caught his mouth with her own.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that they had an audience – that said audience included her entire family, including her older brother. Still, he couldn’t find it in him to care as Arya kissed him, hungry and demanding, and he turned control over to her. The dead could all rise from where they had fallen and Gendry wouldn’t stop kissing her if she didn’t want him to.

“Fucks sake.” It was the Hound who broke their spell, sounding as annoyed as always. Gendry pulled back from the kiss and met Arya’s grey eyes. She was still smiling prettily at him, and he pressed one more quick kiss to her lips, unable to stop himself, not feeling the need to, craving a taste of her smile.

Gendry looked up, and was immediately greeted with the shocked expressions of her siblings. Well, Sansa looked shocked. Jon seemed to be moving from shocked to murderous, and Bran’s expression was as blank as ever.

Gendry was struck with the thought that he had survived the end of the world to be killed by Arya’s older brother, and almost laughed. Instead, he moved to step away from their embrace, immediately missing the feel of her pressed against him. Arya seemed to feel the same way, because she grabbed his wrists and tugged him back towards her.

“What-,” spluttered Jon, seemingly at a loss for words.

“You were saying that you didn’t kill the Night King,” Davos interjected, shooting Gendry an amused look.

“It was you, wasn’t it,” The Hound said, echoing Gendry’s earlier thoughts. The other members of their little group wore varying degrees of shock on their faces, but Jon only nodded, and Gendry tightened his arms around her.

“ _How?_ ” The question came from Jaime Lannister, and Gendry wanted to laugh, because of course the Kingslayer didn’t understand how absurd that question was.

“I stuck him with the pointy end,” Arya replied, grinning at her siblings. “And Jon helped, too.”

“Hardly,” Jon snorted, smiling proudly at his sister.

“You distracted the dragon so I could get by,” she argued. Sansa was the first to move, pulling Arya from his arms and sweeping her sister up in a hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” Gendry heard her whisper. Arya hugged back, gripping her older sister tightly, before stepping out of the hug.

Without another word to the rest of the group, Arya wrapped her fingers around Gendry’s wrist and began leading him away.

“Arya,” called Jon, “get back here! What are you doing?” Gendry didn’t hear the King in the North in his tone, only an exasperated older brother who knew he could never stop his sister from doing anything she wanted to do.

“I don’t have to answer that, I killed the Night King,” Arya called back, leading Gendry into the ruined castle.

There was work to be done – wounded to tend to, dead to collect and burn, a castle to rebuild, an Iron Throne to take – but all of that would have to wait. Arya pulled him through the halls, her steps becoming more unsteady with every passing moment as the adrenaline from the battle began to wear off.

“Sansa will have water sent up,” Arya said, her voice beginning to slur with sleep. “She always thinks of those things. We should clean some of the blood off before we sleep.”

“Where are we going?” Gendry had been blindly following her, but her words made him realize that Arya was leading him deeper into the castle, seemingly with some goal in mind.

“My room.” Arya spoke like it was an obvious answer, like she didn’t understand the question.

Despite his jokes, Gendry felt like it hadn’t really sunk in for him that Winterfell was Arya’s home, that this castle that had just been laid siege to was where she _lived_ , where she had spent her first few years with her brothers. Of course Arya was leading him to her bedroom.

Except, of course, that it really shouldn’t be obvious, because she was a lady and he was a bastard blacksmith who had no place in a lady’s bedroom.

As if sensing his thoughts, Arya stopped abruptly before turning around and kissing him, pressing him into the wall of the castle and devouring his mouth.

“Stop thinking, you stupid bull,” she commanded with a huff, breaking away from his mouth. His eyes met hers, and despite her obvious exhaustion, he was met with a ferocity that was so familiar, so Arya, that he couldn’t help but lean down to claim her lips once more.

Because apparently that was a thing he was allowed to do now.

“As my lady commands,” he breathed against her mouth, and he felt her lips curl into a smile against his own.

“Exactly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it. Maybe I'll actually figure out how to finish stories now...


End file.
